Only For You
by OddEnthusiasms
Summary: When Jack is involved in an accident, it turns out much more complicated than anyone could have ever expected. Spoilers up till 2x10 based mostly on hearsay about the conclusion of 2x09.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** If it looks familiar, it's probably not mine, but I have grown rather fond of a few of these OCs...  
**A/N:** I suddenly realize that this is of a calibre I'm not used to writing, so any feedback would be appreciated. ;)

"Only For You"  
(1/5)

"It all happened so fast. We had just left the club and he was going to get his car from the parking lot over there. He wouldn't let me go with him because he didn't want me to have to step over the snow banks, so I was teasing him about being the perfect gentleman, even though I really think he's sweet. Anyway, he was just about to step off the curb when I said this, so he was still kind of walking when he turned back to me and said, 'Only for you.' That's when the... it happened."

Detective Joseph Prentice felt sympathy for the woman opposite him. She was the type of witness he hated to interview, the ones close to the victim who were calm, in a brittle way, as if they could break into hysterics at any moment. They always fought so hard to keep themselves composed. Usually, they lost, but Prentice had a feeling this particular woman was stronger than others.

"Ms. Montenegro -"

"Please, call me Angela," she said, looking not at Prentice, but just past him. "I only go by Ms. Montenegro when I have to say how someone died. And Jack's not dead." The word 'yet' hung unsaid in the air after her small outburst.

Prentice nodded. "Okay, Angela. Can you describe the vehicle that hit your boyfriend?"

"It was a SUV. A Jeep Cherokee, maybe. It had that type of front grill. But I think it must have been modified, with it's high ground clearance. That's why Jack's hurt as bad as he is." She must have noticed Prentice's inquiring look, because she added: "It's my job to see stuff like that. I have to reconstruct a lot of crime scenes."

"Do you work at the crime lab?" Prentice asked, knowing he would've remembered seeing her around.

"No, at the Jeffersonian. In Anthropology. Jack and me... we both do."

"You guys work with the FBI, right?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Thought so. Back to the matter at hand, did you see the driver of the SUV?"

"It might have been a tall male, but I wouldn't say that's concrete."

"How about a licence plate?"

"Not even a partial, sorry."

While Prentice made notes on a pad of paper, he noticed Angela hugging herself, the first indication that she felt the chill in the air. _Then again_, he thought, _maybe it has nothing to do with weather_.

"Do you know what's ironic, detective?" Angela said suddenly, making Prentice look up at her. "I'd probably still be avoiding my feelings for Hodgins if he hadn't been hit by a car once before. A few months ago, he almost died after being run down, and I didn't realize I loved him until I saw his blood on the ground. Now he's probably dying because he was trying to romance me one more time. It's like some twisted, never-ending cycle." She was still hugging herself, but now she looked closer to the breaking point, ready to cry.

He put a gloved hand on her shoulder. "You got him back once, you'll get him back again," he said. "Do you want me to drive you to the hospital so you can wait for news?"

"They don't need you here?"

"They can manage for a few minutes on their own."

"Then a drive would be nice; thank you," she said, giving him the ghost of what was probably a beautiful smile on any other day.

Prentice led Angela to his personal car, which he'd driven to the crime scene warily a few minutes past one in the morning. Detectives weren't always called out to a hit-and-run.

Neither of them said a word while he started the car and pulled away, letting the blue and red flashing lights fade behind them. A few blocks later, he asked: "Do you want to call anyone to meet you at the hospital?"

"Ya, I guess," she said, pulling a cellular phone from the pocket of her peacoat and dialling a number. "Hey, Brennan, it's Angela. Sorry to call so late, but I need you. Can you meet me at the hospital? Washington Gen. No, I'm fine, it's Hodgins. He was hit by a car." She took a deep breath, as if she didn't want the person on the other end to know how distressed she was. "No, it wasn't him. Just a hit-and-run. Gosh, I can't believe how thankful I am for that," she gushed, letting out a breath of laughter. "I don't know, Bren, he lost a lot of blood before the ambulance showed up. I think it's pretty bad." She swiped at her cheek with her free hand. "Okay, thanks, sweetie." With that, she ended the call and put the phone back into her pocket with a shaking hand.

"I don't mean to pry, but -" Prentice paused. "Isn't Jack Hodgins the guy who was kidnapped by the Grave Digger?" When he'd first heard the victim's name, it had sounded familiar, but couldn't place it until he heard Angela's phone conversation.

"Ya," she answered, looking out the side window.

"And the Brennan you just called was that author buried with him?"

"She's an anthropologist first, an author second."

"Either way, if Dr. Hodgins could outwit the Gravedigger, I'm sure he'll be fine."

Angela took a deep breath, still not looking at Prentice. "There's a lot more the their rescue that the newspapers reported," she said.

He took the hint. Don't talk about what you don't know. "I'm sorry."

"That's okay."

The rest of the drive to the hospital occurred in silence. Prentice parked the car in front of the Emergency Room, ignoring an 'Emergencies Only' sign.

"Seeing as I'm here, I might as well check for myself to see if there's any news," he said. Never mind the fact that a nurse would likely be instructed to call him if anything major occurred with the victim.

"It's probably just as well," Angela said absently as they got out of the car. "I've never been in this door before." She seemed to have iced herself over; if Prentice hadn't noticed her hands, still trembling slightly, he wouldn't have thought she was at all upset.

"Right this way, ma'am," Prentice said, letting the brisk night air cool his embarrassment at using a cop cliché. He led Angela into the hospital, where he asked about the victim at the registration desk, only to be told he'd been rushed into the OR; they could wait in the lounge down the hall. The OR waiting room, unlike the ER's, was fairly empty. Prentice saw Angela scan the room, passing over each face. He figured her friend had yet to arrive. He chose a chair and sat down. She remained standing.

There was really no reason for Prentice to still be there. He would be called if there was a development with the victim and he should technically be at the scene of the crime. But he didn't want to leave Angela Montenegro alone right now. He didn't want her to have nobody to comfort her when she inevitably started crying.

After close to ten minutes, Angela suddenly changed the direction of her pacing and strode quickly to the doorway, where she threw her arms around a woman who had just entered. The two of them hugged for a moment, the pulled back and exchanged words Prentice couldn't hear. Then Angela led the other woman back to where he was sitting and they each claimed a chair.

"Bren, this is -" Angela cleared her throat, obviously choked up. "Detective Prentice. He's on Jack's case. Detective, this is my best friend, Dr. Temperance Brennan."

Brennan nodded in acknowledgement, while Prentice said a curt, "Pleasure."

There were a few seconds of motionless silence until he stood up, pulling a business card from inside his jacket. "I should get back to the scene, but you can call me if you need to, or remember anything else you think I should know," he said, handing Angela the card.

"Thank you, detective, I will," she said primly.

Prentice nodded in farewell at both women, the started to leave the waiting room just as his cell phone rang. Ignoring the dirty looks a nurse was sending him, he took the call.

"Prentice."

"Hey, it's Kelly, with CSU." He recognized the voice of a young, but surprisingly efficient crime scene technician.

"This is about the hit-and-run?"

"I'm not sure that's what it is any more."

"What?"

"We found fresh acceleration marks a block before the accident. They match the witness's description of the vehicle."

"Damn," Prentice muttered.

"Tell me about it," Kelly said with a sigh.

"Thanks for the info, Kelly." He didn't wait to hear her answer as he ended the call. Inwardly cursing, he turned around, heading back where he'd only just came from.

* * *

Angela's head was reeling. Fragments of thoughts rushed through her consciousness, but she couldn't focus on any of them. She almost didn't want to focus on them, for fear of what she would find when she started putting them together.

She muttered some sort of excuse to Brennan and Prentice - who's voice provided most of the fragments - and somehow managed to find her way to the women's washroom. She slid into the first stall and fumbled to slide the latch shut. Not until the door was locked did she lean back against the wall and let her tears fall.

The fragments started to connect, whether she wanted them to or not. Jack wasn't just dying, someone had tried to kill him. For whatever reason, someone wanted him dead and wasn't giving anyone the chance to do anything about it.

Her chest heaved with a silent sob as her trembling fingers fought to undo the buttons on her coat. Finally getting it off, she let it drop to the floor, then slid down the wall to sit beside it, crying silently.

Some time later - it could have been ten seconds or ten minutes, for all she knew - she heard a tentative voice call her name.

"Yeah?" The first time she said it, no sound came out, so she cleared her throat and tried again, louder. "Yeah?"

"Booth and Zack just showed up," Brennan said slowly, and Angela saw a pair of boots stop just outside her stall. "I thought you might like to know."

"Okay. Thanks." Her voice still sounded like she was crying, which she hated. She'd worked hard to never let anyone see her cry, never let anyone know just how vulnerable she could be.

"Ange, are you all right?"

"Don't worry, I'm fine," Angela lied, wiping tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Bren, just go wait with others for news. I'll be right out."

There was a long pause before the boots retreated. Angela took a couple of deep breaths and then grabbed her jacket, preparing to stand up. That's when she noticed the sticky, reddish patches covering her peacoat. Blood. _Jack's_ blood.

Her stomach suddenly rebelled against her solitary beer of the evening and she retched, just narrowly throwing herself over the toilet in time. She waited a few minutes before attempting to stand again, holding her jacket by the hook at the back of the collar as she left the stall.

How could she not have noticed that she was covered in her boyfriend's blood all the while she was with Prentice? Why hadn't someone pointed it out to her? Hadn't she gotten it all over Brennan, too, when they'd hugged?

She draped the jacket over a sink while she cleaned her hands at another one - they were covered with blood, too. When her hands were scrubbed raw, she splashed water on her face, wishing her puffy-rimmed eyes were as easy to get rid of as the mascara streaks.

When she left the bathroom, she was as outwardly composed as she was going to get. This meant she wasn't crying, wasn't going to cry again any time soon. _Besides_, she told herself,_ it's entirely possible that Hodgins is fine and you're just over-reacting. _She kept up a barrage of like-minded thoughts as she made her way back to the OR waiting room. Prentice was gone, and Booth was in his seat, Zack opposite him and Brennan. Angela sat her coat down in one chair and herself in another, beside Zack and facing Booth.

"How are you holding up, Angela?" Booth asked her, his expression unreadable.

"I... I'm just worried, that's all." It was so much of an understatement that it almost felt like a lie. "You haven't heard any news yet, have you?" Three heads shook in negative response. Angela slumped back in her seat, ready to wait.

As the minutes ticked by, she couldn't help but replay the evening over in her mind. When he'd been hit, Hodgins was looking at Angela, giving her a grin. If only she hadn't teased him. Maybe mothers were right and you had to look both ways before crossing the street. But then again, Prentice had said it wasn't an accident, that somebody was aiming to hit Hodgins. Could he possibly have anticipated it?

In her mind's eye, she saw how the SUV's headlights had lit up his eyes, just before the impact, how it never even slowed down as he flew over it's roof, landing with a sickening thud on the ground. The thud had been his skull hitting the pavement. Angela didn't think she screamed, but she might have, maybe his name, as she dashed to the centre of the road and kneeled at his side. Blood was flowing steadily from the wound to his head, his left shoulder was angled odd, his left leg looked definitely broken. She'd been afraid to touch him, but afraid to not. She'd cradled his head in one arm as she dialled 911 and requested an EMT to the scene with a voice so calm it scared her. Then she'd ignored the operator's attempt to keep her on the line and dropped the phone to her side, whispering Jack's name urgently, trying to wake him up, while she found a weak, but still there, pulse in his neck. Before long, it was a whirl of flashing lights and assurances that they would take good care of him and cops calling her _ma'am_. Then it was questions from Prentice and breaking down in the hospital washroom.

Now it was a woman in scrubs coming into the waiting room and making a beeline for their silent group.

"You're with Mr. Hodgins, aren't you?" the woman asked, directing her question mostly to Angela, who snapped upright in her plastic seat.

"Yes. Is he alright?"

"For the time being. We've managed to stop the bleeding, but with the amount of internal injuries he received, another surgery's been scheduled for the morning."

"And then what?" Booth cut in.

The woman looked like she was having a difficult time choosing her words. "I'm going to be honest with you. It's not looking good."

Angela swallowed. "You don't think he's going to make it?"

"All we can do is hope for the best," the woman said, giving a strained smile.

"Can we see him?"

"He's being transferred to ICU now. I'll warn you though, with the drugs we gave him for the surgery, he probably won't be awake at least until after the surgery."

"Oh," Angela said. "Thank you." The woman in scrubs forced another smile before she turned and walked away.

Amongst the four of them, there was silence. Finally, it was Brennan who asked if they were making the trip to the intensive care unit. Three pairs of eyes fell upon Angela. Her 'yes' was barely audible.

Booth led the way through the hospital, the others trailing after him in silence. He asked the desk nurse for direction to Hodgins's room with one hand poised on his hip, as if he were ready to show his badge to get information if he had to. Luckily, he didn't have to.

The four of them stopped outside his semi-private room, of which he was the only current occupant, and exchanged looks. It seemed to Angela that she wasn't the only one reluctant to see him in his current state - what ever that was. It was the same kind of fear that seized her at the quarry the Grave Digger had buried Brennan and Hodgins at. She didn't want to see only the remains of the man she loved, didn't want him to wind up dead with her last memory of him with him in limbo between life and death. She was scared that she would take one look at the man in the hospital room, no doubt attached to IV's and monitors, and forget why he had so often made her smile, laugh, fall in love.

It was Zack who finally opened the door and stepped inside. For a few paces, Angela couldn't see what lay beyond him, but then he moved to the side of the bed and she saw exactly what she hadn't wanted to.

She knew Booth and Brennan were both looking at her uncertainly, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from the figure on the bed. It couldn't possibly be the same man who'd twirled her around the dance floor only a few hours earlier. There was no way that the small, battered, fragile body belonged to the same man who kissed her at every available opportunity. But it was. She could pretend it wasn't him, but her eyes still registered that it was him. His slim, but built shoulders. His beard, contrasting sharply with the deathly pallor of his skin. His curly hair, hidden by bandages in one place and matted with blood in all others.

Angela didn't want to see any more. She turned and walked away, not saying a word to her co-workers. Faintly, she heard Brennan call her name, but she kept walking. She needed to be alone.

Eventually, she found her way to the main entrance and hailed a cab. Fifteen minutes later, she was alone in her apartment bedroom, something that had happened so rarely in the past few months, she forgot how it felt. With trembling hands and teary eyes, she dropped her coat, which was still hanging limply in her hand, into the trash can. Then she undressed and turned the shower on. It wasn't until she stepped inside that she let herself start to cry again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** If it looks familiar, it's probably not mine, but I have grown rather fond of a few of these OCs...  
**A/N:** I _did_ take the time to write it, so it'd be great if you took a few seconds to leave a review. :)

"Only For You"  
(2/5)

When she finally fell asleep, Angela had dreamed that Jack was dead. After that, she vowed to stay awake until she heard him say he was going to be okay.

At the Jeffersonian, Cam and Brennan were dismayed to see her. They told her to take the day off, spend it with Hodgins. She made something up about having work she needed to finish, unable to say the true reason that brought her to the lab today. If she thought about him, she would worry, and then she would speculate, and then she would cry, but if she didn't think about him - was too busy to let him cross her mind - maybe she would be alright.

Shortly after eight, she received a call from the hospital. They were about to take Dr. Hodgins into surgery; would you like to come and be here when he wakes up? Angela made up a lie about a heavy work-load, but asked to be called when it was over.

She didn't know how over it could be.

* * *

Prentice paced the trace lab, watching a technician identify paint chips. He already knew all he could about the tires of the vehicle that had struck Jack Hodgins. Bridgestone All-Seasons. Any schmuck could've stuck a set on their SUV. But maybe they would get lucky with the paint.

"The chip's from an oh-two Cherokee," the tech said suddenly, then tilted his computer monitor for Prentice to see for himself. He almost felt like smiling; Angela Montenegro had been right.

"Thanks," Prentice said, then left the crime lab. On the way to his car, he made a call, requesting a list of people in the area who owned a 2002 burnt orange Jeep Cherokee. He was hoping to get lucky with the list, maybe find somebody who openly hated the Cantilever group and the Hodgins family, maybe even Hodgins himself. In all honesty, Prentice was skeptical this would work, but he had to do something.

Back at police headquarters, Prentice skimmed through the list of Cherokee owners he'd requested. No names jumped out at him. Next he combed through the list, downing at least three cups of coffee in the process. He couldn't tie a single person to Hodgins.

Prentice was only half-disappointed at his lack of progress. It was possible that the driver wasn't from the area, or was hired to do the job. If either of those were the case, it would almost impossible to find them, unless something big happened. There were still uniformed cops questioning residents near the scene, hoping to find that someone had noted something unusual, and CSU was still sifting through evidence, looking for something they missed.

He was just coming from the washroom when a woman approached him. Before even a word was exchanged, he mentally logged everything he already knew about her. Mid-twenties, blonde (most likely from a bottle), average height, super-model figure, relatively good looking.

"Detective Prentice?" When she spoke, she had a smooth voice, one that probably broke hearts over the phone on a regular basis.

"Yes?"

"You're investigating the Hit-and-Run of Jack Hodgins, aren't you?"

Prentice tried to keep his face neutral, even though his interest spiked at her words. How could she even have known about the incident? "Yes, I am."

She smiled, a crazed look creeping into her honey brown eyes. "Then congratulations are in order, Detective. You've just caught the driver."

* * *

Angela kept her gaze focused intently on the miniature pewter swing set on her desk. It had been a gift from Jack, in celebration of six months after their first date, their first kiss. She hadn't even realized the date.

Her eyes filled with tears again and the swing set blurred. She blinked, clearing her vision again. The routine had lasted roughly seven minutes. She didn't want to have to think about what to do next. She would be okay with just sitting in her office chair for all eternity, with her legs pressed to her chest, her desk digging into her shins, as she stared at Jack's gift.

_We did everything we could_. The nurse's words edged their way back to Angela's conscious mind. _He'd lost too much blood. We did everything we could. I'm sorry._

There was the faint clunk of knuckles on glass and Angela spun around, half expecting to see Hodgins standing at the door, grinning sheepishly. But it was Zack. He took a few steps into her office and she stood to meet him.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Angela knew what she had to do.

"He's dead."

Zack, usually pale, went whiter than she'd even seen him. "No," he said, eyes wide.

"I got the call a few minutes ago. He died in surgery." She swallowed. "They did everything they could."

He was silent for another long few seconds, then closed the space between them. She could tell what he was hesitant to do, so she wrapped her arms around him. He hugged back stiffly.

"I don't know what to say," Zack said finally.

Angela shook her head against his shoulder. "Neither do I."

A few minutes later, she was alone again, Zack having offered to tell the news to the others. She was just being grateful for that when her phone rang again.

"Angela Montenegro," she answered, her voice higher than it usually was.

"Angela, it's Detective Prentice."

"Have you heard about Hodgins?"

There was a pause. "Yes, I have. I'm so sorry."

She hadn't the faintest idea how to respond to that, so she just waited for him to go on.

"Since the hit was deliberate, this has become a murder investigation, as I'm sure you know."

"Yes; do you have anything to tell me?"

"We're just about to begin interviewing a suspect. She turned herself in."

It was Angela's turn to hesitate with her answer. "Please keep me informed, detective."

"Of course."

"Thank you."

"And I really am sorry."

Angela hung up and whipped a fresh set of tears from her cheeks.

* * *

Even after a click signaled she'd hung up, Prentice kept his phone to his ear. He was standing in front of the observation window facing into the interrogation room where the woman claiming to have hit Hodgins sat with poor posture. Maureen Aiden, he'd learned her name was. Twenty-three, a college graduate working as a waitress in DC, and completely unfazed by the fact that had left a man fighting for his life, a fight he had lost.

Prentice put his phone away, then walked into the interrogation room, shoulders back, head held high.

"I just got a call from the hospital," he said. "You know that guy you took out last night?"

"Might as well use his name, Detective."

"Jack Hodgins is dead. I'd start getting your act together, if I were you."

"Don't worry about my act. It's all planned out. I've just a few more lines to deliver before I wrap up the play," Maureen said in her sweet voice with her sweet smile.

"Oh, yeah? And what might those lines be?"

"One: I work with the Grave Digger. I'm sure you've heard her name before - both her real one and her title. Nobody outwits her. It's just not very nice. Two: She'll be happy he finally died this time. Three: You'll never be able to link me to her. Trust me. She's outwitted the FBI a dozen times; you don't stand a chance. And four: You'll never be able to press charges for the death of Dr. Hodgins. I've ingested a poison that'll have me dead within the hour." She ticked the numbers off on her fingers as she talked, the smile never leaving her face.

Prentice didn't know where to start. Even someone as quick thinking as he usually was wouldn't have been able to get past number one. He didn't know what was a bigger shock: that he was looking at the accomplice of one the most notorious - not to mention successful - kidnapper in a decade, or that that kidnapper was a woman. He wasn't being sexist, but he, like most of the population, expected serial killers to be male.

"What do you mean, you'll be dead within the hour?" he finally decided to ask.

"Just that." Maureen gestured at his watch. "By the time the long hand on that reaches the twelve, I'll be dead." Prentice, too, looked at the watch. He had half an hour. Enough time.

"Did it ever occur to you that I can have you rushed to the hospital and keep you alive just long enough to find out the name of the scum you're working with?"

"It did. That's why I'm not going to tell you what I've ingested. With the amount of time left, they would never be able to save me. Just like they weren't able to save Dr. Hodgins."

Prentice gripped the back of the chair he usually sat in to do interrogations. Sitting would put him too close to this beautiful, but obviously deranged woman. "Why are you doing this to yourself?" he couldn't resist asking.

Maureen shrugged. "There has to be some justice in the world. When Doctors Hodgins and Brennan survived, they created injustice. They were the first - the _only_ - of the Grave Digger's victims to survive without a ransom being paid."

"Okay, so you had to get back at Hodgins and Brennan for living without paying their dues," he said, playing along. "But why turn yourself in?"

"Well, I was _supposed_ to hit Angela Montenegro - you know, his boyfriend, her best friend, but when I hit Hodgins instead, the Grave Digger and I decided the message wasn't clear enough, and that I would have to come forward, just so they knew who to blame for his death."

"Even if someone had to reveal the master plan, why couldn't it have been the Grave Digger herself to do it? Why do you have to be the one to make the sacrifice?"

"She _chose_ me, Detective," Maureen said, eyes bright. "It's an honour to be chosen to die for her. All of her victims, instead of being angry or scared, should feel _honoured_."

Slowly, Prentice straightened up and took a few steps backwards. At the wall he stopped, never taking his eyes off of Maureen, at a loss for words.

* * *

"The Jeffersonian has a therapist we work with. I've already called her about this. She's available whenever you need her," Cam said, sliding a scrap of paper across the desk.

Angela didn't even look at the number. "I don't need to talk to anybody."

"Keep the number, just in case you change your mind."

Angela nodded mutely, looking at Cam's shoulder, not her face.

"You should take the rest of the day off, maybe a few days," Cam suggested.

"That wouldn't be fair. You lost a great colleague as well," Angela said.

"Unless you've already forgotten the way he looked at you," Cam said, "You know you lost a lot more than a colleague."

Angela didn't answer and eventually Cam left. A few minutes later, her phone rang yet again.

"Angela Montenegro." Her name sounded foreign on her tongue, as if she weren't the person she said she was.

"It's Prentice again."

"Did you arrest the bitch that killed Hodgins?" she asked in a tone that was somehow both empty and icy.

"I'd like to talk face-to-face."

Angela was taken aback. "Okay."

"If I drop by the Jeffersonian, will I be able to talk to both you and Dr. Brennan?"

"I'll make sure she doesn't leave."

"Thanks. I shouldn't be more than twenty minutes."

"Okay," Angela said again, and then she was listening to a dial tone.

Brennan and Angela were standing on the platform wordlessly when Prentice showed up twenty-two minutes later. Brennan hurried down the stairs to swipe her card and let him up. He apologized for interrupting their work. Both women assured him it wasn't a problem.

"We know who it was who hit Dr. Hodgins," he started, pulling a snapshot from inside his jacket. "Maureen Aiden. Do either of you recognize her?" Two heads shook 'no'. "She turned herself in earlier today and died forty minutes later."

"Died?" Angela echoed.

"She poisoned herself before she came in. Medics weren't able to save her. I'm guessing she wanted to live long enough for us to hear who sent her, but she didn't want to take the chance that extra time might lead us to her boss."

"Who was she working for?" Brennan asked.

"The Grave Digger."

"What?" Angela and Brennan exclaimed in unison.

"According to Aiden, the Grave Digger wasn't too please that Brennan and Hodgins lived without the ransom being paid, so she somehow contacted Aiden -"

"Wait, _she_?" Angela interrupted. "The Grave Digger is a woman?"

"That's what Aiden said. She also said that she was supposed to hit you, because of your relationship with the Grave Digger's would-be victims, that would make sure they both paid their dues, so to speak. But when Hodgins was struck instead, they had to go to Plan B, which was to come right out and say it."

"Well..." Angela was starting to seem frazzled. "Are you sure Aiden did it? She might just be some crack-head making stuff up."

"Her vehicle matched both your description and the tire marks found at the scene. We also found blood on the front bumper. It matched the victim's."

"That doesn't mean she was driving, or that the Grave Digger had anything to do with it," Angela insisted, figuratively groping around in the dark for something that would disprove what Prentice was telling her.

"Angela -" Brennan started.

"Bren, haven't you said yourself that once someone becomes comfortable with a way of killing, they're not apt to change? The Grave Digger hurts people just enough to bury them alive without them fighting back, she wouldn't suddenly decide to leave someone in the middle of the road to die."

"But remember that it wasn't the Grave Digger who killed Hodgins, it was someone working with her," Prentice said.

"Besides," Brennan added. "Just because someone is only used to using one method of murder doesn't mean they don't condone other methods - if used by other people."

"I thought you hated psychology."

"That's not psychology, that's human nature."

"So failing to kill someone and then asking someone else to kill them for you is human nature?" Angela snapped.

"I know this is hard on you, Angela, but we have no doubt that Aiden was working for the Grave Digger." Prentice's tone was obviously meant to be soothing. It worked.

"Okay," she said lamely.

Brennan looked at Prentice, then away again. "We should have already figured that case out. The Grave Digger should be where she belongs, not... pulling the strings for other deaths."

Prentice swallowed, shifted his weight. "You did everything you could, I'm sure."

"Obviously not, Detective. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do," Brennan said coolly.

"Of course. Sorry." He turned to leave, stopped, turned back. "I doubt anything will happen, but I suggest you two watch your backs until this is sorted out."

Angela nodded mutely and sank into a nearby chair as Prentice turned to leave again. Brennan didn't respond at all. Instead, she picked up her clipboard and a pen, poising it uncertainly over her page.

Prentice was almost to the doors when Booth came in them. The latter stopped the former and they talked for a few moments before Prentice continued on his way and Booth strode over and up on to the platform.

"Please tell me that that was a fake cop telling me things that aren't true," he said, a mixed look on his face.

Angela let out a single puff of humorless laughter. "You and me both, Booth."

He paled. "Hodgins is really dead?" She couldn't answer or meet his eyes. Brennan made no indication she'd noticed Booth's arrival, still standing with her clipboard and her pen, not writing any thing. "And the Grave Digger is behind it?" Again, no answer was his answer.

For a long few moments, no body said or did anything, then Booth walked over to stand beside Brennan. "You okay, Bones?"

She didn't look up. "Of course I am. What were you expecting to be wrong with me?"

"I don't know... survivor's guilt, anger that we never caught the bastard, fear that he might come after you, too, or maybe you could be just upset that one of your colleagues died?" Booth paused. "I know that's sure as hell making me less and less okay right now."

"Yes, Booth," Brennan said, looking at him, "If it matters that much to you, I _am_ upset that Jack's dead and that it's only because we weren't able to solve one crime that really mattered, which is making me angry." She took a deep breath, as if to continue, but she just shook her head and looked back at her clipboard.

Booth hesitated another moment by her side, then crossed back to Angela and sat down in the chair opposite her. "How about you?"

"I'm so far from okay I've forgotten what it feels like," she said honestly. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah."

"What do you say when someone tells you their sorry the man you loved is dead?" Angela asked, looking Booth square in the eyes, the first time she'd met anyone's eyes all day.

"Thank them," he said.

She nodded. "And what do you say when you think it's at least partially your fault?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Prentice didn't tell you that Maureen Aiden, the woman who hit Hodgins, was supposed to be aiming for me, did he? And I bet you didn't know that he was distracted when he stepped on to that street. He was talking to me when she hit him."

Booth simply looked at her for a few seconds, then: "That was just fate, Angela, there's nothing you could have done about it."

She looked down at the table between them. "I promised him we'd find her," she said in a small voice.

"Find who?"

"The Grave Digger."

"Is a woman?"

"Apparently so."

There was a pause before he spoke again. "You know, it's funny. In that book that expert wrote on the Grave Digger, he said that, in his opinion, it could be a woman, but that his colleagues were adamant is was a man."

Angela furrowed her brows. "How is that funny?"

"I don't know yet," Booth said, "But I intend to find out." He pushed back from the table, stood up, and walked away without another word.

Brennan looked from the door swinging behind her partner to her best friend. "Why was he here, anyways?"

Angela shrugged. "I think he forgot."

"This does seem to take precedence over everything else," Brennan admitted.

"Yeah," Angela agreed, standing up. "You aren't going to need me any more today, will you, Bren?"

"Go. You should take time off."

"Let's just see if I can make it through the weekend," Angela only half-joked, heading toward the platform entrance.

"And, Angela?"

"Yeah?"

"If you need me, call."

* * *

_(To Be Continued...)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** If it looks familiar, it's probably not mine, but I have grown rather fond of a few of these OCs...  
**A/N:** Reviews make my day. :)

"Only For You"  
(3/5)

Michael Bublé crooned about mending broken hearts while she stirred pasta. Tomato sauce from a can simmered on the other side of the stove, sending off an odour of basil and other herbs she couldn't identify. Not that it mattered what it smelled like. Everything would taste the same, she knew, just like it had after Kirk had died. Everything would be bland. She took the pasta off of the burner and drained it.

Two forkfuls into her solitary dinner, she couldn't eat any more. The rest of the spaghetti went into Tupperware, then into the fridge. She moved to clean the pots, expecting to have to scrub. She didn't. It wasn't like the last time she'd made spaghetti, when Jack had started kissing her while she was cooking and the noodles ended up sticking to the bottom of the pot. Just thinking about him sent a jolt through Angela that made her wonder how she'd ever thought she'd be able to eat.

She finished cleaning up in the kitchen and walked aimlessly through her apartment. At just after six, the sun was already starting to set. Even though she hadn't slept more than three hours out of the past thirty-six and she wanted nothing more than to fall asleep and not wake up until Hodgins was back beside her, she knew she wouldn't be falling asleep any time soon.

By ten, the apartment was spotless. Floors swept, rugs washed, cupboards organized, windows cleaned, closets and drawers tidied, and everything that wasn't hers on a neat pile on the kitchen counter. She tried not to notice how big that pile was, how many of Hodgins' things had wound up at her apartment. A George Orwell book, CDs from obscure bands, his favourite brand of aftershave, bits and pieces of his wardrobe, the spare toothbrush he'd bought after she scolded him for using hers. Things would only be worse at his place, where she knew she'd practically been living for the past month or so. She would have to tackle that tomorrow.

When she couldn't find anything else to keep her occupied - _idle hands are the devil's handiwork_ - Angela resigned herself to trying to sleep. She went through all the motions of going to bed: cleaning what makeup hadn't already been washed away by tears off her face, brushing out her hair, changing into an oversized t-shirt and crawling under the covers. But she couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, a scene with Jack would play out in her head. Some of them were happy memories - like the way his eyes somehow held both uncertainty and complete confidence that he was doing the right thing right before he kissed her for the first time - but others weren't - like the way he couldn't look her straight in the eye and talk without stuttering after she had mercilessly broken his heart. Either way, tears leaked out from under her eyelids at the thought of him. She hated to admit it, but she'd grown accustomed to always having him there, to hardly ever being alone. Now it was to the point where she _needed_ him.

So she kept her eyes open, trained on the clock. Minutes turned into an hour turned into six. She was just drifting off when a telephone rang and brought her back. She fumbled on the end table for her cordless and, when she found it, took the call.

As she answered, she glanced at the clock. 6:58. Any other Saturday, someone calling this early would have gotten an ear-full, but Angela was too exhausted - too numb, maybe - to care.

"Someone told me this is the best time of the week to eat at the IHOP," said a forcedly cheerful voice. Booth's voice.

"Really?" Angela asked skeptically.

"Yeah, and besides, Bones was worried about you."

"I told her I would call if I needed her."

"Oh, well. And we're here now anyway."

"Where?" Angela threw back the covers, walked to her bedroom window, and drew back the curtains. Sure enough, Brennan and Booth were leaning against the hood of his car, her with her arms crossed and him with a cell phone to his ear. "Oh."

"What's the verdict on the pancakes?"

"Give me ten, and I'll be down."

While she was getting ready, she noticed the dark circles below her eyes and could only hope the others wouldn't. When she came out the front door, Booth and Brennan started talking abruptly, as if they were talking about Angela. She didn't call them on it, just greeted them weakly. The trio decided to walk the few blocks to the pancake house, instead of trying to find parking there. Angela was grateful for the walk. The cool air felt good on her tired eyes and constricted throat.

"We didn't wake you up, did we?" Brennan asked when they were seated in the restaurant.

"No." Angela figured it wasn't a real lie, since being woken up had to start with being asleep. When the waitress came, Angela ordered coffee and plain pancakes, knowing full well she'd be lucky if she could just get the drink down.

Conversation was sparse.

Once, Booth asked Angela how she was holding up, and she faltered with a response. Before her 'I just need time' could come out, both of her colleagues had put a hand over each of hers. Angela felt tears sting her eyes and looked down. Their supportiveness just reminded her of what was missing.

When their food came, Angela cut up her pancakes and pushed them around her plate. She hadn't used the technique since she was a little girl, but she hoped it still worked.

"Booth, did you find out anything yesterday, after you left the lab?" Angela asked, more out of a way to start a conversation than out of curiosity.

He swallowed a piece of waffle. "Vega didn't seem too keen on discussing it, but he did say he wanted to talk to that Prentice guy Monday. Sounded almost as if someone was listening that he didn't want to know what he was talking about. Probably a girlfriend. I ended up finding him on vacation in Cuba."

"You're making him end his vacation to deal with this?" Angela asked.

"Even if he hadn't volunteered, I probably would have made him, yes. The quicker the Grave Digger is behind bars, the quicker I can stop worrying about her coming after the two of you."

"I can't speak for Angela -" Brennan started.

"Yes, you can," Angela interrupted.

"But I don't think we're in any danger," Brennan continued. "The Grave Digger's made her point. She's not going to risk being caught again to terminate one of us, too."

"But we can't take any chances." The direct way Booth looked at his partner made Angela look away, for a reason she couldn't quite name. Maybe it had to do with the fact that she couldn't understand how Brennan could be looked at like that and not realize how in love with her he was. She sure as hell knew that she already missed Jack looking at her like that. How could her best friend not see what was right in front of her?

After breakfast, they walked back to Angela's building in silence. After a dozen assurances that she would be fine, or would call someone if she wasn't, a quick hug from Booth, and a longer one from Brennan, she was allowed to go inside. She watched from her bedroom window as Booth and Brennan drove away, then went back downstairs. Sometime during the silence, she had decided that the faster she got all of her things from Jack's, the better.

Traffic was light on her drive across town and she was pulling into his driveway, past the garage before she knew it. At the front door, she didn't get out right away, but sat in the car with the engine off, letting the windows steam up. Now that she was here, the last thing she wanted to do was go inside.

There was a tap on the glass. Angela pried her eyes away from the house to look out side window. Zack was standing outside, leaning towards the car, his expression a mixture of confused and upset.

She grabbed her purse and opened the door. "Hey, Zack." She put her booted feet on the icy driveway and stood up.

"Hi, Angela, what are you doing here?"

"I just have a few things I wanted to pick up," Angela said slowly, shutting the car door behind her. "What are you doing?"

"I noticed someone drive in so I was coming to tell whoever it was that they wouldn't find him," Zack said, his voice growing strangely high-pitched at his last few words.

Angela nodded. "I already know I'm not going to find him here. Or anywhere."

"Yeah... well I'll leave you alone, but if you want to come down for coffee or to talk or something, I..." He didn't seem to know how to finish his thought.

"Okay," she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "How are you doing, anyway, Zack? I mean, you guys were close."

He looked down at the ground. "I've never lost a best friend before."

A few minutes later, Angela was inside the entrance hall of Hodgins's, the spare key Jack had given her still hanging limply in her hand. Every step she took felt like she was walking with shoes of cement. The air inside was practically unbreathable. She was struggling to breathe, to stay composed, to do anything but go into the parlor, curl up on the settee and cry like she wanted to.

* * *

By nine, Prentice was back at police headquarters, carefully going over mounds of evidence collected from Maureen's apartment. In all honesty, he had no clue what he was looking for - it wasn't as if he was expecting to see her making calls to someone registered as the Grave Digger. But he hoped that when he saw it, he would know. So far, he didn't know anything except that Maureen Aiden was a vain woman - hair and nail appointments, calls to a spa, multiple exchanges with a photographer renowned for his second-string model work.

What had she said, again? _I'm sure you've heard her name before_.

What did that mean? The Grave Digger was really some famous person out kidnapping people for kicks? If so, what was her claim to fame? Politics, the arts, journalism? Or was is fame on a different level? Was she once a victim herself, seeking revenge on a society that deserted her at her time of need?

One thing was for certain - he'd never heard any of the names Maureen called on a regular basis from her land line or her cell phone.

By eleven, he'd scrutinized every piece of documentation on Maureen Aiden and over half off the papers-of-potential-relevance collected from her residence. When he stood up to stretch and get another cup of coffee, he couldn't help but notice that the small number of other officers there had dwindled just since he started. No one wanted to be working on Saturday unless they had to, unless they were like Prentice and felt an obligation to find whoever had tried to crack the fragile woman they'd met just over twenty-four hours ago.

As he sat back down to continue with his tedious work, he caught a glimpse of his calendar and felt a sickening swooping sensation in his subject. He'd become so involved with Angela and her boyfriend that he'd forgotten that today would've been his love's birthday. If he could turn back time five years and find some way to stop that drunk driver from hitting her in that crosswalk in their new neighborhood, she would be turning twenty-nine and being repulsed at the mere thought of being so close to thirty. They had just moved in together from the small town in New Hampshire where they'd grown up together. They were childhood sweethearts. They were engaged. And then she was dead and his life spiraled out of control.

Since then he'd devoted his life to his job and nothing more than a one-night-stand here or there. Since then, apparently, he'd forgotten when her birthday was.

Silently, he asked her for forgiveness, then pulled the next paper off the pile.

* * *

She put everything that belonged to her in a box. She organized his spice rack. She wandered aimlessly from hallway to hallway, remembering moments she'd spent with him in each room, against each wall. She threw out sour milk. She held a framed picture of the two of them together to her chest as she laid on his bed, sobbing until she was finally too exhausted to stay awake any longer.

A shrill ringing roused her from her dreamless sleep. She allowed a second to remember why she felt so miserable, then another to think through answering his phone. _Well_, she reasoned, _whoever it is has got to find out some way or another_. She found the nearest phone, picked it up, and held it to her ear.

"If you're looking for Jack -" she started, only to be cut off.

"Ms. Montenegro?" a male voice interrupted.

"Yes?"

"I thought I'd be able to find you there. My name is Arnold Grose and I'm calling on behalf of the law firm the Cantilever Group employs." He was formal, almost definitely a lawyer, Angela deducted.

"What does that have to do with me?" she asked blankly.

"A fair amount, I believe. Have arrangements been made yet for Jack's remains?"

Suddenly, Angela's legs couldn't support her any more and she sank shakily to the floor. "No," she said in a strangled voice.

"Are you arranging that or have one of his relatives offered to do so?"

"I - I don't know."

"Have you even been in contact with any of Jack's family since his death?"

"He never talked about his family." She was shocked to find herself using past tense. Obviously, her subconscious had adjusted to him being a thing of the past quicker than her conscious had. "I wouldn't even know how to get in touch with any of them."

"Oh... I have numbers for his first cousins, if that interests you," Arnold said, his voice less business and more sympathy.

Angela agreed and asked him to wait while she went in search of a pen and paper. When she got back to the phone, she copied the names and numbers he dictated with such shaky handwriting she hardly recognized it as her own.

"Angela, I'd like you to give me a call when you hear the details of the funeral."

She nodded, then remembered he couldn't see her. "Not a problem," she breathed.

"And would you be available to meet for coffee say, Monday afternoon?"

"Why?"

"I have a few things I'd like to go over with you."

"Oh. Where?"

Arnold named a coffee house a few blocks from the Jeffersonian. "At around two-thirty?" he asked.

"Sure. I'm sure I can get away for a few minutes."

"You aren't taking any time off?"

"I don't see why I should." Then, as politely as possible, she hung up on him, then sunk back onto the floor. The hardwood was cool, in a comforting way.

She contemplated dialing the numbers on her paper, stopped. What would she say? 'Hi, I was your cousin's boyfriend, but we never met because he couldn't stand you'? What sort of first impression would that be?

Instead, she thought about the lawyer's call. He had her worried, now. Who _was_ arranging Jack's funeral? Was she expected to do that, as his girlfriend, or did he have family members that would take over? If it wasn't her, when would she even know when it was, when she would be able to try to say goodbye? Where did you even hold a funeral for a man who hated churches on principal?

And what would the lawyer want with her?

As badly as she wanted answers, she couldn't think of anything but questions. They just kept piling up in her brain, overwhelming her.

One question stood out against all the rest of them, as if bolded in her head.

Just who and where was the Grave Digger?

* * *

When every document had been scoured, every piece of evidence scrutinized, Prentice stopped focusing on Hodgins's murder and turned to the Grave Digger's past works instead. The file he'd been given on the kidnapper was thin. Seven cases of a half-dozen pages each, plus a page of common facts for quick reference. Hodgins's name appeared multiple times, both as a victim and a scientist. There was no indication that the Grave Digger had ever had an accomplice before two days ago. No indication it was a woman ruining all these lives, either.

So Prentice turned to his computer, and a few clicks and keyboard strokes later, he had a list of sites mentioning the Grave Digger. He browsed through a few sites, reading articles about the survivors whose families had paid the ransom, about the Kent brothers, about Brennan and Hodgins, the two geniuses who beat the odds, outwitted a killer, and managed to get themselves saved. Aside from articles, he read reviews and an author biography for a book called _Uncovering the Grave Digger_. He made a mental note to pick up the book on his way home and maybe track down the author if he could. Maybe he'd learn something new. He doubted it, but maybe.

He checked his watch. It was three and he hadn't eaten - or made all that much headway - since nine. Sure, he would go home to an empty house and eat leftover takeout and brood over the case, but at least he wouldn't still be at work, where everyone could see him and know he was getting obsessed with a case again.

When he stood up, he stretched, trying to loosen the knots that had developed over hours of pouring over fine print, then grabbed for his coat. It brushed against a stack of papers and knocked one to the floor. Prentice bent to pick it up. It was Maureen Aiden's phone record.

A name jumped out at him and neurons started firing at full speed in his brain. He sat back down in his chair and pulled up the history log on his internet as quick as possible. He found both pages he was looking for immediately. He looked from the record to the screen, thinking it couldn't possibly be a coincidence.

* * *

_(To Be Continued...)_


End file.
